


Blank Screen

by thesleepypanda



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Season 2
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-25
Updated: 2019-02-25
Packaged: 2019-11-05 16:57:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,831
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17922737
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thesleepypanda/pseuds/thesleepypanda
Summary: “Have you tried talking to him?”“Well, no. I’ve been telling him to piss off for weeks now.”Tim’s not worried about Martin. Definitely not.





	Blank Screen

Martin hasn’t bothered him in almost two weeks. It’s a welcome relief, honestly. Tim has come to hate his suffocating cheeriness, his constant fretting, and his incessant need to find the silver lining when there clearly isn’t one. 

Things are a lot more peaceful without him. 

 

________________________

 

It’s not that he’s worried about Martin. He definitely isn’t. He’s just starting to feel a bit suspicious, that’s all. His lack of interest in everyone is completely out of character, and Tim has vowed to keep an eye out for any behavioral changes after the whole getting-eaten-by-worms thing. He definitely sees Jon’s increasing paranoia. 

He notices that Martin doesn’t budge from the library all day, except when he leaves for lunch at exactly noon. He always take a full hour. He used to just microwave ramen noodles (the kind in the disgusting styrofoam cup) and scarf them down in the kitchen.

Tim wonders if he’s reading up on things, for cases or even personal matters, but when he manages to get a look at his screen a few times he sees that it’s blank. He isn’t even writing shitty poetry or watching stupid videos, like the one about the unlikely bond between a zebra and turtle that he emailed to the entire office.

 

________________________

 

“Sasha, have you noticed that Martin’s been super weird lately?”

“Hmm?” She glances up from a book, looking dazed. “I didn’t think he was in. Hasn’t offered me tea in days.”

“He’s been here, just sat in the library and staring at nothing.”

“Have you tried talking to him?”

“Well, no. I’ve been telling him to piss off for weeks now.”

“Sounds like you got what you wanted.”

He doesn’t have a response to that.

 

________________________

 

Later that week, Tim goes to the kitchen to get his own damn tea. He finds Martin staring out the window, holding a plastic spoon. 

“Martin?” He’s starting to feel a bit creeped out. 

Instead of jumping like he expects, he just slowly glances up, as if the movement requires effort. Most un-Martin-like of all, he doesn’t say anything. Just looks at him expectantly. 

Tim can't think of a single instance where Martin has been silent, except when someone has told him to shut up very recently. 

Which does actually happen pretty regularly, now that he thinks of it.

“Yes?” He asks finally. And his voice is all wrong, deadpanned and quiet. He stares at Tim with dull eyes encased in dark circles. 

“Nothing,” Tim says as he rummages in the cabinet for a mug. Normally Martin would have never let that answer go, would ask him if he was alright, if he needed anything, if he wanted to talk about it. He turns around to find the kitchen empty. 

 

________________________

 

In the past, he was always the last one to leave. Now Martin heads for the door at five o’clock on the dot. 

“Martin!” He grabs his coat and hurries after him. He’s out of his depth, not sure what he’s doing. 

“Yes?” He asks, with almost the exact same flat inflection as days before. Definitely creepy. 

“Let’s get a drink.”

Truth be told, he immediately regrets asking. He wants to go home, sleep for the next ten days, wake up and fuck a stranger and then start the whole thing over again. But at the same time, there’s something about the distant numbness in Martin’s eyes that he can’t seem to stop thinking about. 

Martin shakes his head, as if in disbelief, opens and closes his hands. “Uh, sure? I suppose. Okay.” 

They walk down the huge steps that precede the institute's entrance and the silence is deafening. But the warm glow of the streetlights feel peaceful, and Tim starts to feel soothed by the soft shuffle of their footsteps moving in synch.

He’d forgotten it’s Friday night, and all the bars seem unbearably loud and crowded. Definitely not the vibe he’d intended. Tim takes one look at Martin’s face when they walk into one and steers him back out. 

"Let’s just grab a bottle and head to your place, yeah?” Tim’s never been there, but knows it’s a hell of a lot closer than his own flat.

 

________________________

 

When he’d idly imagined Martin’s life outside the institute in the past, he’d always pictured something homey, with wooden floors, lots of plants, maybe a dog or a cat, in a nice quaint neighborhood. 

But as they walk along, there’s more rubbish, less street lamps, more people standing alone muttering to themselves. 

The outdoor hallways are grimy, cigarette butts litter the majority of the cement, and the railings are so rusty they look like they’ve been painted orange. 

“Right,” Martin says, fumbling for his keys, “Uh, it’s not much, but, yeah, here we are?” His voice gets a bit too high at the end.

The door swings open to reveal a tiny, dingy studio. Christ, don't they make around the same amount of money? Or at least close to it? They have the exact same job title. And while Tim isn’t exactly living a life of luxury, he can afford a decent one bedroom flat. In a neighborhood that doesn’t make him clutch his keys between his fingers, as if that’ll somehow protect him. 

The place is meticulously tidy, even smells of bleach and lemons, but there’s only so much you can do with stained carpet and one tiny window. There’s a bed with a faded plaid bedspread, a side table that houses an outdated mauve lamp and notebook, and a secondhand green sofa and dresser. There isn’t much room for anything else. 

On one wall, there’s a cheap reprint of a sailboat painting that looks plucked right out of the 90s. Fake gold frame and everything. Definitely a charity shop find. Another wall displays three generic-looking black and white photographs of a forest, and a clock made of plastic. There's a goldfish in a glass bowl on top of the wooden drawers.

Martin follows his stare and smiles fondly. "Oh! That's Jeremy." 

Before he can think of a response to _that,_ Martin keeps nervously rambling. “Anyway, I’ll just, uh, grab some glasses then. Right.” As he fumbles with a corkscrew, Tim wonders if it’s the same one he used to dig the worms out of them. 

He seems to read his mind and waves it around with a slightly hysterical laugh, “Don't worry, it’s a new one.”

 

________________________

 

They’re three bottles in and end up sitting on the carpet, backs pressed against the green sofa. Tim feels relaxed, even comfortable, as he stares at the ice-skating penguin on his mug. Of course Martin doesn’t own wine glasses. 

Martin is talking much more, and some of his usual light seems to show through the fog that’s engulfed him lately. Tim stares at him openly, not hearing a word he’s saying. He might be talking about the aquarium? 

He’s not sure, because he can’t stop looking at his hair. It frames his face perfectly, and effectively hides his unfortunately-sized ears. And it looks so, so soft. He really wants to touch it. 

It’s grown out more than a little in the months since Tim has had a proper look at him. When did they last have an actual conversation? Make small talk, ask about each others weekends, share a laugh at Elias’s expense? But then, that was before they knew he was in on it.

“Um, everything alright?” Martin asks, looking worried. 

“Your hair’s long.” 

“Oh! Yeah, I’ve been meaning to get a cut, but I haven’t, well—”

Of course he takes it as an insult. Tim watches as he frantically runs a hand down the back of it and smoothes the messy bits that made it attractive. God, the wine is getting to him. There’s nothing attractive about Martin. 

He’s in a brown jumper that—well, first of all, it’s a _brown jumper_. Easily two sizes too big and misshapen. It looks scratchy. His corduroys (who the hell wears corduroys?) are also brown and too short, and allow his corgi-patterned socks to show noticeably. 

But for reasons he can’t understand, Tim reaches out and grabs his wrist to still it. Martin lets out a small squeak of surprise at the sudden contact. His skin is soft and warm, and if he’s getting turned on Martin’s _wrist_ , well, he truly hasn’t gotten any in awhile. He lets go but doesn’t move back. 

He doesn’t remember moving even closer, but Martin’s now inches away, biting his bottom lip. “What—Tim?” he starts to say, but then Tim slips his hand under the back of his jumper (which is actually quite soft) and his breath hitches. 

He stares at Tim with something akin to awe, as if he won’t allow himself to believe this is happening. He runs his hand along his skin lightly, surprised to feel the notches of his spine, and Martin shivers. Tim leans in for a soft, barely there, brush of their lips. 

A beat passes. His brain seems to catch up with the rest of him, and he kisses Tim back with inexperienced awkwardness and teeth, but eager and rough enough for all the blood to rush down anyway. And then they’re on their feet, kicking off shoes, pulling off each other’s shirts. 

Tim grabs the back of his neck, runs his thumb along a hip bone that juts out, and the way Martin bucks into his touch makes Tim drop to his knees and run circles around it with his tongue. 

He’s skilled at mapping bodies quickly, and he’s definitely found Martin’s sweet spot. His words come out in breathy gibberish, “Christ—Tim—bed—oh— _fuck_ ,” But Tim’s not feeling patient, and with fast, practiced movements he has Martin’s belt unbuckled and pants unzipped in seconds.

His hands suddenly still. Martin stares at him in confusion, hair ruffled and unruly, pupils blown, lips wet. They've barely touched and he already looks thoroughly unraveled.

“Okay?” Tim likes to check in, wants to know he's certain. Martin nods eagerly, wide-eyed. Tim grins up at him, and doesn’t break eye contact as he runs his tongue along the thin, tented fabric. 

 

________________________

 

As he fucks him into the mattress, he suddenly wonders if he’s thinking of Jon. And it’s not that he’s jealous—he’s angry. Angry that Martin has feelings for someone who treats him so poorly. And for some reason, this makes him slam into him faster, rougher—almost cruelly, if he’s honest with himself (which he isn’t).

But Martin moans in approval and pushes back, meets his thrusts, makes him go even deeper. Tim grabs a fistful of curls and yanks hard enough to pull his whole head back.

Martin climaxes almost immediately at that, with a breathy gasp that makes Tim follow suit. He digs his fingers into his hips with a bruising pressure, and lets out a strangled groan. 

When he eventually remembers how to breathe, he pulls out as gently as he can manage. He rolls over and looks up at Martin. His chest is heaving at an alarming rate, his eyes are closed, there’s a thin sheen across his entire face, and his hair is drenched in sweat. 

Tim swallows, unsure. “Are you alright?” 

“That was...” Martin pauses, still trying to catch his breath, “ _brilliant_ actually.” He immediately goes scarlet at the admission, as if his cum isn’t currently drying on Tim’s stomach. Tim lets out a relieved laugh as he wipes it off with a discarded shirt. The sound is strange in his own ears. There was a time when he laughed often, made others laugh easily. 

With an unforeseen rush of affection, he throws his arm across his waist and pulls him close. Martin feels good. Safe. The silence is peaceful as he rests his head on Tim’s chest, drawing gentle circles around his scars while Tim runs his fingers through his hair. He tries to remember the last time he’d felt anything other than restless and angry.

 

________________________

 

After what seems like ages, he softly asks, “Martin, what’s been going on with you?”

He looks up quickly in surprise, starts to speak, pauses, then shakes his head. 

A familiar wave of bitterness washes over him as realization hits. Of course that’s what—no, _who_ —it’s about. 

Tim pulls away, feels his expression flicker from concern to disgust. “He treats you like shit. You have to realize that, right? I mean, he’s a miserable bastard who treats everyone like that. But you especially. He talks down to you all the time, he _yells_ at you, he thinks you’re—”

“Yeah, I know,” Martin sits up too, and both pain and anger flash across his face briefly. “But this isn’t—Jon doesn't have anything to do with this. And for the record, I’m not completely daft, okay? It’s not just him. _None_ of you respect me.”

“That’s not true—” but even as Tim says it he wonders who he’s really trying to convince. 

“Yes. Yes it is. But I didn’t care, before, I just wanted everyone to be happy. I didn’t mind. Trying to help, that is. I _like_ helping. But now,” he pauses, swallows. “I’m just—I’m just tired. That’s all.”

Tim just looks at him skeptically. He isn’t normally one to push, but something tells him no one else will. “Martin, you’re wasting away, you look like you haven’t slept in a year, you haven’t spoken a word to anyone in weeks—”

“Alright, fine,” He takes a shuddering breath. “My mum’s not—she's uh—she isn’t doing well, okay? The doctors say it’s coming soon, any day now.”

It takes Tim a beat to process this. God, he’s such an ass. He squeezes his arm gently, tries to communicate that he’s sorry. “I had no idea,” he says quietly. 

His first thought is that Martin hasn’t taken any time off in months. He’s rubbish at comfort, but he wants to help. “Listen, I know we can’t really leave for good, but you can definitely—”

“No,” he says quietly, pulling at a loose thread on the blanket.

“I’ll talk to Elias myself, or, hell, Jon even—”

“I said, _no_ ,” he speaks with a sharp firmness Tim’s never heard before. 

His furrowed brow immediately fades into his default expression: a sort of nervous, awkward guilt. “I’m sorry—it just—it doesn’t have anything to do with time off, okay? She won't—she—she doesn’t _want_ to see me. She hasn’t in...well, in a long time,” he pauses and his next words are so quiet that Tim isn’t sure if he hears him correctly, “I think she may actually hate me.”

Tim has no idea how to respond to that, but Martin lets it all out in a breathless, agitated rush before he has to. “I don’t even know _why_. And I’ve been stuck at the institute for years, sending nearly everything I make to pay for her medical bills and her care center. I mean, I can _barely_ make rent at this dump. I’ve been eating canned food for the last decade, you know? And she still keeps refusing my visits. I just feel so guilty all the time. Like, I somehow failed her? I mean, I must’ve done _something_ wrong...but I just don’t know what else I can do! I send her letters but I don’t think she even—” he stops abruptly, a blush spreading across his face, all the way up to an ear that pokes out of his mussed up hair. “Sorry—I—I didn’t—I’m sorry.”

Tim’s head is still spinning from wine and sex and he's struggling to keep up, “Sorry for what?” 

“Going on about it. I know you were just asking to be polite. I’m sorry—just—just forget about it, okay?”

“Christ, Martin, you’re allowed to have feelings.” He wonders if anyone has ever told him that. “And I asked because I give a shit.” His words surprise even himself, but he means it.

Martin blinks owlishly at him. “Oh.” He lays back down and stares at the ceiling. “Well, that’s the gist of it, anyway.” 

Tim tries to ignore the feeling in his chest, but it feels like he’s being ripped apart. It isn’t fair that someone as selfless as Martin should get the short end of the stick. Tim’s family life is messed up, sure. After Danny—well, they just don’t know what to say to each other anymore. But even though they haven’t spoken in months, he’s never once doubted that his parents love him. 

He lays down next to Martin and wishes he was better at this. Martin rolls over to face him, and stares with those huge, honey-brown eyes. Tim wonders why he never noticed the freckles that lightly dust his nose and cheekbones. 

He’s always seen Martin’s vulnerability as weakness, but he’s starting to realize it’s something more akin to resilience. Especially as he feels himself hardening and shutting off. He wonders whose resolve will be stronger in the end.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!


End file.
